


The Great Martian Bake-Off

by hopeless_eccentric



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Great British Bake Off AU but not really, Humor, Other, a STUPID amount of fluff and domesticity, it's on Mars and i play fast and loose with the rules, juno's shitty lungs, nureyev doesn't use an alias for the sake of my brain while writing, peter nureyev is an abysmal baker and i am so so proud of him, simp juno steel, they're all regular ass people on mars au, they're both walking disasters, what if i put my cologne on you as an excuse to touch your face ahaha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25214185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeless_eccentric/pseuds/hopeless_eccentric
Summary: Juno Steel manages to qualify for The Great Martian Bake-Off, Mars's favorite family-friendly baking show. He's doing alright, but he's pretty sure he would be doing better if not for the man assigned to share his station. The guy seems pretty intent on tormenting Juno, who might just die of frustration before he gets the chance to be eliminated.AKA I did a quarantine binge of The Great British Bake-Off and this happened. Whoops!Updating daily.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 24
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is already finished and will update tomorrow evening!
> 
> Title from well. You know. 
> 
> Minor content warnings for a minor asthma attack and brief mentions of minor injuries sustained in Peter Nureyev-induced baking accidents!

How Juno Steel had managed to land himself on the Great Martian Bake-Off, he didn’t know. However, between the ambiance and the company, he didn’t particularly mind. 

As far as Martian television went, this show was pretty tame. Twelve amateur bakers from across the planet competed in various challenges, with one going home each week until a winner was crowned. The program was known for family friendly entertainment and general positivity, which was more than the majority of entertainment could boast. 

All and all, Juno found it was a good use for all his depression baking over the years. 

The company was a whole different issue. Issue was, perhaps, too strong a word, but there was little else that could so succinctly describe Peter Nureyev, the baker assigned to share Juno’s station until one of them inevitably went home. 

Nureyev stood tall enough that Juno had half a mind to bring a stool to save the camera men the trouble of framing shots around them. Juno didn’t particularly mind the height difference, though everything else about Nureyev made his heart palpate and his blood boil. 

He had a lot of nerve sauntering into the baker’s tent, a patch of teal and lilac and greens meant to emulate a garden, like a desert wind who got lost. Nureyev carried himself like old money and spoke with a cadence so lovely it made Juno’s ears burn and palms sweat. Even worse, every one of his movements was like a dance step, from his clever fingers twirling over the decorations of his cakes and pastries to the deep bows over their shared station as he worked on the finer details of bakes he couldn’t quite see from his vantage point. 

Juno wasn’t particularly upset with him, but rather, the way his own eyes lingered over where Nureyev’s collar hung loose around his neck. Juno had nearly dropped his cake on the very first challenge because Nureyev had spent a moment too long bending over to unload the oven. 

He had to be tormenting Juno on purpose, but there was no way in hell Juno could prove it. He would just have to smolder in silence while their hands occasionally brushed, or stutter out niceties when Nureyev asked to borrow a measuring cup. 

Juno was pretty sure he was going to die of frustration before he was even eliminated. 

Other than his qualms about his station mate, Juno surprised himself with how well he was faring. He had been docked for a handful of preventable mistakes, like dropping his mini tarts. Whether or not that was due to how soft Nureyev’s lips looked was up for debate. However, the judges seemed to agree his flavors and technique were enough to guarantee his continued place on the show. Juno certainly couldn’t complain about that. 

He could, and would complain about his various injuries, however. He had a significant slice into his thumb from chopping fruit while distracted and a notable burn marred a portion of his left hand from when he had reached into his oven without a mitt. He had no excuse, other than the fact that Nureyev was biting his lower lip and squinting in focus at his runny icing. Juno could have seen the same scene played out time and time again with a simple glance around the room, but only Nureyev’s knit brow seemed a work of art to him. 

Perhaps he was being hopeful in thinking Nureyev had returned his affections in equally awkward fashion. On the second week, Nureyev mixed up sugar and salt and had to entirely restart a pastry. Whether or not that was because Juno smiled at him and complimented his pants remained to be seen. 

How Nureyev had managed to survive his way to the second week was a mystery Juno didn’t feel he was qualified to solve. Nureyev’s first bake of the week was nearly raw, his second burnt to a crisp, and his final at least somewhat passable. By luck or intervention, however, another baker managed to drop all but one of their bakes, which contained garlic powder in place of yeast. 

Juno was convinced Nureyev had made some kind of deal with the devil just to make it to week two. 

“So,” Juno started early into the second week’s final bake. He prayed casual conversation might remedy some of his distraction. He knew well it wouldn’t. “Why did you decide to try out for the show?” 

Nureyev chuckled, low and soft. Juno wished the sound would never end. 

“It started as a joke. A gentleman’s bet gone wrong.” 

“That I can believe,” Juno snorted. Nureyev made a face of mock-offense. 

“Juno,” Nureyev started. Juno only melted a little at the way Peter said his name. “I thought my raw focaccia would have convinced you of my skill by now.” 

“Sure, sure,” Juno laughed. “The only damn thing on this station that smells halfway decent is your cologne.” 

Nureyev grinned deviously. 

“Would you like to try it?” He offered. 

“Why the hell not? I’ve got the time.”

Nureyev stepped away from the mixture that was looking far too close to dough instead of batter. Juno felt his pulse spike as he strode over, standing just a little too close. 

The smell of that cologne was overwhelming. Usually Juno hated the stuff, but he couldn’t find an excuse to complain about this specific scent, especially not the way it seemed to electrify the air around him. 

Nureyev reached into his pocket for the cologne and spritzed his wrist. However, rather than dabbing it onto Juno’s wrist, he reached a hand up to Juno’s face, long fingers steadying themselves against his jaw as the cologne smudged onto his neck. 

Juno’s knees began to protest against the concept of standing, so he braced himself on the counter as Nureyev strolled back to his mixer, which he was now prodding with a spoon. 

“While I was applying that scent for you, I couldn’t help but notice,” Nureyev began. “You’re wearing quite the lovely shade of lipstick.”

Juno’s face flushed a color similar to the shade Peter had mentioned. 

“Uh...thanks. You too,” he managed, by some miracle, without causing any kitchen catastrophes. “I just thought—well, you always look good—and I might as well—“

Juno sputtered a few other things before his voice entirely died off. For once, he didn’t regret his mixer being so damn loud. 

“Are you trying to impress me?” Nureyev teased. 

Juno’s choke turned into a coughing fit. Initially, Peter laughed, though when the fit continued, he found himself rushing to Juno’s side.

“Do you need me to—“ he began, already wrapping his arms around Juno’s chest to prepare a choking maneuver when Juno took a sudden breath and held up a hand. 

As much as his chest hurt and his head reeled, Juno couldn’t say he entirely minded the feeling of Nureyev holding onto him like that. Even when he had bent double to catch his breath, Peter left a comforting hand on his back. The touch was at the least, grounding. 

His hands were softer than Juno would have expected, though they ran cold. With blood rushing to his head, however, Juno didn’t mind. When he finally stood up to wave off the producers and the set’s paramedic, he gave Nureyev’s wrist a little squeeze of thanks. 

Juno really should have stopped doing things that made his lungs and cardiovascular system threaten to fail. 

“Thank you,” he finally croaked, turning back to his bake. 

“Good lord, I’m so sorry,” Nureyev began, sounding half ready to burst into a long winded speech. Juno’s laugh made any sign of it trail away. 

“To answer your question,” Juno began, clearing his throat one last time. “Of course I was trying to impress you. After all, you did take my breath away.” 

Nureyev dropped a spoon into his batter. His eyes went wide at this, though Juno’s snort of laughter managed to coax a smile from him. 

When Peter smiled, it tended to be the kind of glowing beam movie stars and newscasters could only dream about. It told you everything you wanted to hear about yourself and more. Those sharp teeth were as imposing as they were inviting. This time, however, it was soft, tugging on gentle lips in a way that looked so intimate Juno felt nearly unclean for having seen it. After a moment, however, he felt he could get used to the look. After a few too many moments, he was unsure if he had it in him to look away. 

Juno’s bake was horrible. Peter’s was worse. 

Nureyev didn’t have any complaints when he became the first ever baker sent home for having a spoon baked into their cake. However, he found Juno aggressively cleaning up his station upon returning to do the task himself, and a part of him feared his former station mate hadn’t taken the news as lightly.

“You really don’t need to help me, you know,” he began. Juno only continued stacking tart tins. 

“I’m trying to do a nice thing for you. If you’re gonna be pissy about it, you can pack up your own damn tins,” Juno returned. 

“I’m not dying, Juno,” Nureyev chuckled. “I have half a mind to think you’re taking the news worse than I am.” 

“I’m taking things fine, thank you,” Juno snapped. Nureyev raised an eyebrow. 

“Do you have a pen?” 

Juno’s head finally emerged from where it was working, brow knit and hair tousled by the heat of the many ovens. Peter thought it might have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Yeah, here,” he started, tone gone flat with confusion as he rummaged in his pocket and handed the pen to Peter. “Why?” 

“It’s a shame to see a lady as lovely as you upset. I thought I might leave you something to remember me by,” he chuckled, breaking his melodramatic tambor as he continued. “Here. If you liked that cologne so much, you might as well take the bottle.” 

“You really don’t have to—“

Nureyev pressed the bottle into Juno’s hand. Only then, between the fingers that had seemed to intertwine of their own accord, did Juno notice the comms number scrawled across the tag. 

“How would you feel about dinner some time? All on me, of course. And to add to the package, I won’t make you dessert,” Peter offered. 

Juno cracked a smile. 

“Are you asking me on a date, Nureyev?” 

“I thought that was fairly obvious. Are you accepting my proposition?” 

Juno reached for the remainder of the tart tins, which he tucked under one elbow as he stood, helped up by Peter’s offered hand. Juno couldn’t help a spark of warmth in his chest at the realization that their hands fit together like puzzle pieces. 

Nureyev didn’t let go of his hand as they began to walk back towards his car. Juno had no urge to point out the happy accident to him, save for the occasional squeeze of his hand, just to make sure it was entirely real. 

“Absolutely,” Juno grinned. “But only if you promise not to bake for me.” 

Nureyev rolled his eyes. 

“I promise.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juno and Nureyev make bread, get covered in flour, and watch the season finale. That all counts as a date, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo!! I'm glad my quarantine gbbo binge actually lead to something mildly productive! Hope you enjoy the end!!

When Juno poked his head into the door of his—now their—apartment, a cloud of smoke hit him like a freight train. He coughed a few times, announcing his arrival before he could manage a decent greeting. 

“I’m in the kitchen, darling!” Nureyev called. 

As much as Juno adored the pet names, he really wished Nureyev had picked a different time to take his breath away. He waved his hand in front of his face, and despite his better judgements, made his way towards what was undoubtedly the cloud’s epicenter. 

“Scale of one to ten, how edible is—“ Juno broke off at the sight of a only somewhat charred loaf of bread. “That actually doesn’t look half bad.”

Nureyev grinned, so radiant Juno could barely look at it before he had to turn his flushing face to the lump of semi-charred dough instead. He really hoped Nureyev would never stop having that effect on him. 

“It’s rye, Juno,” Nureyev explained. He gestured to a recipe up on his comms, which displayed an image of bread that somewhat resembled the lump. “It’s supposed to be dark in color.”

“Is it supposed to be smoking?”

“No, I’ll admit copious smoke was not mentioned in the recipe,” he said. Juno snorted. 

“I mean—it could be a lot worse. And at least we know it’s not raw,” Juno offered, though Nureyev shook his head, still prodding at the loaf with a knife. 

“I wouldn’t rule anything out just yet,” Nureyev murmured. His words were softened with focus as he tried to pry the bread from its pan. Remarkably, the bottom wasn’t burnt to a crisp. Save for a patch along the top that looked to have been on fire mere moments ago, the bread looked fine. 

“Nureyev,” Juno began, his gasp genuine. “That looks good.”

“Spare my pride, Juno.”

“I’m not kidding. I’d eat that.”

Nureyev raised an eyebrow before turning away to set the bread on the cooling rack. With the smoke finally starting to clear and Juno’s vision adjusting to the hazy room, he could finally get a good look at his boyfriend. 

His boyfriend. Juno didn’t think that would ever get old.

A smile bloomed from his lips, betraying his thought process. Without rhyme or reason why, Peter returned the look, and Juno felt just about as melted as the half-liquid butter on the counter. Nureyev had flour in his hair and on just about every part of his face not covered by his glasses. He was wearing an old t-shirt Juno could have sworn was originally his, though it was hard to keep track of anymore. All in all, he looked like he had been beaten up by a bakery. 

Juno was pretty sure it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Really, Juno? I’m fairly sure a part of it caught fire,” Nureyev chuckled, bringing Juno back down from the stratosphere. 

“Maybe after it cools for a little while. And maybe if we cut around that part,” Juno teased. 

Peter rolled his eyes, a hand falling back to his hair out of habit. When it came back streaked with powdery white, his eyes went wide. He paused to go through several stages of grief, eyes squeezed shut, before he opened them once more and took a long, pained look at Juno. 

“Am I correct in assuming that I am entirely covered in flour?” he grimaced. 

“You look like a ghost in one of those bad streams Rita likes.”

Nureyev groaned while Juno wheezed with laughter, though he suspected smoke inhalation was a secondary culprit. When he had finally recovered from the fit, bracing himself against the counter while Peter shot him a smoldering glare, he reached for a towel by the sink. 

“Bend down. I can’t reach,” Juno said. He probably could, if he stretched. One too many mornings spent sneaking up behind Peter while he made coffee or tea and messing with his already undone hair had convinced Nureyev of this fact. Nonetheless, he bent his head forward. 

Juno was pretty sure Nureyev could work out his intentions for himself. Juno had barely touched the towel he grabbed to assist in the work, and was spending far too long running his fingers along Peter’s scalp and into sections of hair that were nearly flour-free. However, the soft sigh a brush along Nureyev’s temple coaxed from him was enough to convince Juno that he didn’t particularly mind. 

When the flour was so long gone Juno had no more excuse to play with Peter’s hair, he wiped his hand on the towel and tossed it back to the counter from whence it came. 

“Better?”

Nureyev ran his own towel over his face to clean what Juno had missed, emerging with his glasses askew in a way that made Juno’s heart feel like it had been put through a taffy puller. 

“Better,” Peter confirmed. As if suddenly remembering something, he checked his watch. “We’ve got about twenty minutes until the finale airs. I’m going to go clean myself up.”

“How cleaned up is ‘cleaned up?’” 

“It’s an excuse to wear something nice I’ve had sitting around for a while, if that gives you some idea,” Nureyev offered. “Maybe not a lipstick that smudges. I’m treating this as a date.”

“Yeah, I might wear that color I had on when you first asked me out if it hadn’t disappeared out of my makeup bag and mysteriously wandered into yours,” Juno snorted. 

“Fascinating, the complexity of modern technology,” Peter said in place of farewell, giving Juno a wave as he disappeared around the corner to prepare for the date. 

Juno huffed, cracked a second window to help with the smoke, and followed him. 

. . .

“Oh, you—“ Juno began, half in shock, when Nureyev returned to join him on the couch. 

He managed to clean up remarkably fast, hair looking as if it had never known flour at all. What stole the air from Juno’s lungs was the exact same outfit he’d worn upon the week of his elimination, from the pants that had lost Juno one of his mini tarts to a silk shirt that refused to smell like anything but Peter’s cologne. 

Juno was pretty sure that lipstick hadn’t been the only thing Peter had stolen, as the smell of distant spice he had long since associated with a feeling of home made the gradually shrinking space between them buzz. When Nureyev finally sat down, their thighs touched. Mere months ago, Juno would have probably died on the spot had he been subject to such a comfortable intimacy. 

Now, he just wrapped an arm around Nureyev’s shoulder and turned on the stream, though his heart still leapt at the feeling of a kiss to the cheek. He felt the lipstick leave a mark behind, as it usually did if it had only been recently applied. He didn’t mind the mark one bit.

“It’s a shame Rita and Buddy didn’t qualify for the finale,” Nureyev mused as the opening credits began to roll. “Though I can’t say I disagreed with the judges’ decision regarding Rita’s garlic meringue. Bold flavors don’t always pay off, I’m afraid.”

“At least they can’t say she’s not creative,” Juno snorted. 

“I’m afraid I never got much of a taste for Buddy’s style, though she did seem quite the woman.”

“I think she might’ve won it, if she didn’t turn into a therapist the moment someone got upset.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I got a little frustrated at one of my technicals, and she immediately started putting my shrink to shame. Barely finished herself,” Juno remembered. 

“Interesting. And how do you feel about the picks for the finale?”

“I don’t know much about the other guy, but I think Vespa and the big guy really deserved to be in there,” he mused as the stream began to explain the bakers’ various challenges for the finale. Having been present for the taping, they weren’t missing much. However, it was nice to see what had been going on within the tent before the winner was announced to the crowd of friends, family, and former contestants. 

“You do know Jet’s name, right?” Nureyev asked. 

“Yeah, I just always called him big guy. It doesn’t feel right any other way,” Juno shrugged. 

“You have quite the way with words, my darling,” Peter teased, receiving a light elbow to the ribs for his trouble. 

They remained in silence for the majority of the finale, pausing only to comment on particularly good ideas or violent events. 

“You know,” Nureyev began as the screen went up in flames. “I think if not for that particular incident, Vespa may just have won the competition.”

“Sikuliaq has all those tiny cakes, though. I got to try one, and I think my soul left my body for a bit. He won fair and square,” Juno returned, voice casual despite the fact that he was bracing against Peter as the fire was quelled. 

“I can’t say I anticipated this finale to be anywhere near this thrilling,” Nureyev mused. His hand had found its way into Juno’s hair, fingers running lazily along his scalp as they continued to watch. Juno felt relaxed enough to fall asleep right there, though the combination of the entertainment and the company was enough to keep him from a nap. 

“The good stuff really hit a few weeks after you left,” Juno started. “They gave us a torch for one technical challenge. I would’ve liked to see you weld a creme brulee.” 

“I can always make one at home.”

Juno snorted. “Please don’t.”

“Your funeral.”

“If you try to torch a creme brulee in our apartment, it will be.”

Peter laughed, and Juno wished the sound would never end. 

“I think our little cameo is on soon. I doubt they’ll use my interview. I wasn’t on enough of the episodes to be marketable,” Peter said. 

“What the hell does that make me?”

“A cash cow,” Nureyev started, breaking off to laugh when Juno glared at him. “The prettiest cash cow I’ve ever seen.”

“Not sure how much better that is, but I’ll take it.”

Peter was right, of course. Only his prediction that Vespa would win, “though all of the bakers are quite talented, and I wouldn’t put victory past any of them,” was used in the episode, along with some footage of him hand in hand with Juno. 

Juno felt there had been a mistake on the part of the producers in only including a few shots of him. Nureyev, in true fashion, had shown up dressed to the nines, enough to make Juno’s heart flutter just from looking at him. He looked nice in the shots, of course. Juno doubted he had the capability to appear disheveled anywhere beyond his own home. However, there was something missing Juno couldn’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was the presence Nureyev had in person. Perhaps it was that cologne and its habit of making his heart rate double. 

“I take it you’re upset with the segments they used? You’ve got that look of righteous indignation again,” Peter mused. Juno felt himself flush. 

“I just think you had a lot of valuable opinions that didn’t make it in. That’s all.”

Nureyev chuckled, shaking his head. 

“If you’re mad about my cameo, I doubt you’ll like your own,” he mused. 

He was right, of course. The sound of his own voice recorded, regardless of the quality of the equipment, was enough to make Juno wince.

“I promise, you sound lovely,” Nureyev assured him, his hand having fallen to rub comforting circles into Juno’s shoulder. “I really do wish you’d wear that sundress more often.”

Juno raised his head from where it was formerly buried in his hands. 

“I mean, it doesn’t look horrible,” he returned. “I just don’t usually have an excuse to wear it.”

Nureyev hummed. “It seems I may need to start coming up with excuses for you to wear it, then,” he chuckled. 

“I don’t think I’d mind that.”

Peter gave his free hand a squeeze. “I really hope they didn’t include us covered in powdered sugar for the ending.” 

“Of course they will. You looked adorable. That kind of thing sells,” Juno snorted, gesturing to the screen in triumph when the segment catching up with the season’s bakers showed the two of them with flour and powdered sugar streaked all over their hair, clothes, and faces. There was a distinct break in the smudge on Juno’s cheek where Peter had kissed him. 

The narration said some general sweet things they both knew already about moving in together and continuing to bake, now with extra help. Juno wasn’t paying attention. His eyes rested on Peter beside him, admiring each movement of his hand as he reached for the bread Juno had laid out on the table. 

Juno couldn’t say how such a work of art had ended up in his living room, let alone living in the same apartment as him. He could have wondered over the subject for hours, but Peter’s hand flew over his mouth in shock, breaking Juno’s train of thought entirely. 

“Is something wrong?”

Nureyev shook his head in silence, finishing the bread with childish wonder in his eyes. When he finally tore his wide eyes from the plate of bread to gaze up at Juno, he looked shaken to his very core. 

“It’s good.”

“You’re shitting me.”

Nureyev shook his head, pressing the plate into Juno’s hands. Juno took the piece with the least charing across the top and took a tentative bite before nearly dropping the bread. 

“Holy shit,” he gasped, pausing to actually finish the bite. “You did it.”

“It even tastes the way it’s supposed to.”

Juno set down the plate upon finishing a second piece, still shaking his head in disbelief. 

“God,” he started, voice shaking with stunned laughter. “I think I could kiss you right now.”

Nureyev grinned. “Then do so.”

And well, Juno couldn’t really argue with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!! Make sure to smash that kudos button, leave a comment down below, and don't forget to be awesome!!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr to yell about rye bread with me @hopeless-eccentric !!
> 
> Please format all comments as baking critiques. Or don't. I can't tell you how to live your life.

**Author's Note:**

> Write the asthmatic representation you want to see in the world. Anyways, thank you so much for reading!! Smash that kudos button, leave a comment down below, and don't forget to stay awesome!!
> 
> If you want to yell at/with me about mini tarts, I'm on tumblr @hopeless-eccentric !!


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